


Neither Of Them Initiated and Neither Of Them Decided (It Just Happened)

by mu5icliz



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mu5icliz/pseuds/mu5icliz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John actually meet on the train for the first time. It all just happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neither Of Them Initiated and Neither Of Them Decided (It Just Happened)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsCaulfield](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsCaulfield/gifts).



> Written for [arbysandthetardis](http://arbysandthetardis.tumblr.com/) for the [johnlockchallenges](http://johnlockchallenges.tumblr.com/) for Valentine's Day.  
> The prompt was “Friends to lovers fic that’s really fluffy. I’m ok with porn, but not too much that it would overpower the fluff. Slow build would be awesome :)" and had "Fluff, AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship"  
> I hope I hit all the notes.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The question from such a deep baritone voice brought John out of his mind numbing staring. Really his gaze was on the woman across the aisle from him but he had not even registered her presence there. He was on the underground but really his mind was elsewhere.

Remembering the question that had jerked him back into reality, John looked left, in the direction from where the question had come from. The sight that met his eyes was unquestionably beautiful and yet, strange in a good way. The man sitting next to him was not even looking in his direction so John was only able to see his profile but it only served to accentuate his beauty.

When John had finished his ogling, which he hoped had only lasted a few seconds, he asked, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” immediately repeated the man, not even turning to look at John.

John confusedly looked straight ahead as he gathered himself then turned to respond, “Afghanistan…I’m sorry, how did you…know that?”

The man turned to look at him and John was met with the gaze from mercurial eyes framed by dark brown curls. The man looked at him for only a moment before he was back to rigidly sitting up straight and looking ahead, shaking one or two curls in the process.

“I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. You’re holding onto a cane but not firm enough to have grown accustom to it, so the injury must have been recent. Wounded, abroad, military – Afghanistan or Iraq.”

John did not stop looking at the man’s profile the whole time. He even allowed his jaw to drop but quickly gathered himself and closed it. When the man was finished speaking, John looked at the sun-tanned hand loosely holding the cane and then up to the woman in front of him. No one else on the train had felt the world shift the way he just had. They had not even noticed the one-sided conversation happening before them.

John slowly responded with the only thing he could think to say. “That…was amazing.”

He didn’t even turn to look as the man’s eyes grew wide and slowly turned to gawk at John. He quickly stared his fill then looked ahead again. The man cleared his throat then asked, “you think so?”

“Of course it was,” smiled John to the man. “It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”

The man nervously turned to look at John and was met with a warm smile.

“I’m John, by the way,” he said as he extended his hand.

“Sherlock Holmes,” responded Sherlock as he nervously shook John’s hand. He never once stopped staring at the odd person named John, trying to calculate what was just happening.

They let go of each other’s hands and John went back to looking ahead as the train reached the Upton Park station. The train filled with new people but Sherlock was only thinking of that smile, the word “amazing”, and the name John.

When the train began to move again, John asked, “so do you do that to everyone?”

There were just a couple more bodies in their carriage but Sherlock immediately picked the woman sitting across from them with his stare. “The book bag next to her. Books on biology, epidemiology, and anatomy. Medical student. On the Hammersmith line? Studying at Bart’s then. Tired and sore eyes. Rhythmic tapping of her fingers. Has had training in piano then. She’s listening to the Gnossiennes and following along with her right hand. Now why would a medical student have tired eyes and be listening to the Gnossiennes? Well the sore eyes are a give away. Pretty much all medical students have them, but classical music? The patches on her book bag are all from contemporary bands. Must be a big exam coming up and she’s trying to calm herself. Anatomy exam most likely.”

John looked from Sherlock to the medical student and followed along as everything that was said fell into place. It was completely obvious really but he just had not noticed it before. He had not noticed many things at all. John smiled at Sherlock (he could not remember the last time he had smiled twice in the span of just a few minutes) and said, “Amazing. Absolutely amazing.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks grow hot as he heard those words. His body was being ridiculous today. “I should confess, I’ve seen her at Bart’s before,” he said in the most cold and calculated voice he could muster to hide the glow he felt in his chest.

“Oh, are you a doctor?” asked John.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and looked at him. He was serious. John actually thought he was a doctor. Not the brightest person then. “No, I’m not.”

“Right, because I was going to say, you don’t look anything like a doctor,” John responded, “I should know.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide. “Army doctor.”

The amused smile was back on John’s face. “Yes – well, not anymore,” he said as he balled his left hand into a fist.

Before Sherlock could respond, the train reached the next stop and more people got on board. When they began to move again John asked, “so what do you do for a living?”

The train continued to move west. People continued to board and disembark. And Sherlock and John continued to talk. They talked about Sherlock the consulting detective. They talked about John the former army doctor.

John could not remember the last time he had enjoyed a conversation so much and Sherlock could not remember the last time he had met someone who could hold his attention for an entire train ride.

As the train got near the heart of London, more and more bodies were surrounding them and it was a perfect excuse for John to sit closer to Sherlock. Sherlock’s rigid posture had relaxed without his noticing and he even occasionally smiled.

When the train pulled into the Farringdon station, the woman across the aisle gathered her things and exited the train. At every stop of the train, Sherlock and John had gotten into the habit of pausing their conversation, which gave John a perfect excuse to watch the medical student exit and prove Sherlock’s deduction. John watched the student leave and then turned to smile at Sherlock as they both thought the same thing.

When the train resumed again, Sherlock continued his story about the ambassador’s wife’s missing earing. As the train pulled into the Great Portland Street station and Sherlock got to the part in the story about the Scotland Yard forensic specialist, Anderson, getting his hand caught down the wife’s shirt, John stifled his chuckles into his coat sleeve. People boarded the carriage around them and Sherlock did not waste a moment looking away from John.

The train began to move again and John turned to resume listening to the story but Sherlock was standing getting ready to make his exit at Baker street station.

“Oh, I guess this is goodbye then,” said John.

Sherlock did not know how to respond. Sure he had an appointment with Mrs Hudson about a flat on Baker Street but she wouldn’t mind him being late right? No, of course not, he thought. It would just be an hour or two.

Why am I even considering this? Ok, just an hour or two and then I’ll be on my way to see Mrs Hudson, he promised to himself.

Eventually Sherlock responded with, “I was just going to walk around Regent’s park.”

“By yourself?” asked John.

Sherlock slightly nodded as the train pulled into Baker street station.

“Well I can’t let you walk around by yourself,” said John as he stood up and made for the open carriage doors.

Sherlock smiled and followed him out into London.

 

* * *

 

The last time Sherlock had spent such a delightful day in London was when there was what looked like a suicide from inside a locked room with no weapon.

John and Sherlock had originally planned to just walk around the park in the light rain and in a comfortable silence but they had not stopped there. After circling the park, they continued on into the streets of London and John shared stories of his own adventures in London and his days in Uni.

“One of my mates and I got so pissed one night that he began chatting up the owner of that shop,” said John, pointing to the shop across the road.

“Mrs Abbott? But she must have been…at least 55 years old at the time,” said Sherlock perplexedly.

“I know. That’s why I said, he was pissed at the time,” laughed John.

They continued walking south in the direction of Chinatown.  There they walked around the shops in silence, occasionally looking at things. Mostly John was looking at things. Sherlock was busy looking at John and firing off deductions in his head until he said it out loud. “Your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic and you’ve skipped your appointment.”

John didn’t react that time. He continued handling the produce and not looking at Sherlock when he responded, “figured that out have you?”

“We’ve been walking around for hours and you have not needed to sit down and – “

“Yes, alright,” interrupted John, angrily looking at Sherlock before abandoning the pile of apples and marching on down the street.

Sherlock confusedly followed him, not knowing what had just happened. His deductions had been spot on, he was sure of that, but why the reaction? He continued to think about it as he watched John’s limp become more pronounced with every step forward. The pieces fell into place for Sherlock but he was powerless to understand how to fix it.

John came to a stop and turned to look at a violinist playing on the pavement. The crowd was light and they all respectfully listened as the musician coaxed music out of the instrument.

 Sherlock came to a stop just a couple of steps beside John. The first thing he registered was the look of serenity on his face. John was no longer thinking of the war. He was now thinking of something else. Something Sherlock could not see.

When he abandoned his attempt to see what John was reacting to, it was then that he heard the strings of an Antoni violin playing Bach’s Ciaccona. Sherlock turned to scowl at the violinist on the pavement and tried to find something to pick at. The posture needed work. Also, too much sway of the body with the notes. You’re supposed to play the instrument, not dance with it.

Sherlock turned back to John but John had not even noticed his presence there. He was still transfixed by the music of the violin. Luckily, the violin piece was nearing its end and Sherlock held out for it to be over.

When the final note was finished being drawn out of the instrument, the small crowd cheerfully applauded, John among them. A few people dropped notes into the violinist’s instrument case.

When John was done clapping he turned to beam at Sherlock, “wasn’t that amazing?”

“Well…”

“What? That was really good,” exclaimed John.

“I’ve heard better.”

“Oh like you could do better?” challenged John.

“Yes, actually,” replied Sherlock.

“Seriously? You play the violin?” John looked at Sherlock’s long gloved fingers. “Should have known.”

Sherlock smirked at John before walking over to drop a couple of pounds into the musician’s case.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked, once he had joined John once more.

“Starving.”

 

* * *

 

They took a cab to a place called Angelo’s on Northumberland Street and were met with the smiling face of the owner. They were seated at a table by the window and told, “Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free, on the house, for you and for your date.”

John’s head jerked up in Angelo’s direction at the mention of the word “date”. With eyes blown wide he tried to see what Sherlock could possibly be thinking but the man was already engrossed in his menu.

John remained speechless as Angelo retold the story of how Sherlock got him off a murder charge. Once the candle had been placed on the table, it only served to make things even more real. Is this a date, he asked himself. Has this whole day been a date? Does he even know?

When John had begun settling into perusing the menu, Sherlock stopped hiding behind his and placed it flat on the table. There was no easy way to make of this. The word “date” had not even crossed his mind. Sherlock couldn’t even remember how he had landed himself in this situation. All he could remember was a smile paired with dark blue eyes and the word “amazing” but he couldn’t remember if that was a compliment he had received or if that was what he had thought of that face.

After he had finished picturing the smile, Sherlock turned to look at John who had since put his menu down and was the same glorious image that Sherlock had imagined. It was then that he decided to not bother himself with deciding if it was a date or not. To have John for a meal was worth more than possibly ruining whatever it was that was happening.

They ordered and when the food arrived, Sherlock surprised himself with actually enjoying at least half of it. They sparingly talked during the meal and once they were full, it felt like there was no stone in their conversation that was left unturned. The train ride from earlier that day had felt like a lifetime ago.

It was near closing time when they decided to end their companionable silence and leave the restaurant. They gathered their coats and Sherlock watched with a smile on his face as John left his cane behind.

Outside, they mutually and wordlessly agreed to walk in the direction of the Thames. It was no longer clear who was following who but neither disagreed or refused the direction.

When they reached the Embankment, John was the first to stop and look at The Eye. Sherlock followed suit and stopped alongside him. Even though they had seen The Eye so many times before, somehow this time was different. Even the people of London could tell it was different. For a mid-January evening, the Embankment was missing quite a few tourists.

Sherlock continued to watch the giant structure turn across the Thames but his body seemed to ache with tension. His heart was beating so fast and he did not understand why he could possibly be having a heart attack at this moment. He turned to ask John, the doctor, for medical assistance but was instead met with a sight that truly did make his heart stop.

The dim light from the lamps along the pavement made John’s sun bleached hair appear even lighter. The dark water of the Thames contrasted with the blue light of The Eye and the lightness of John’s hair making John the central focus of Sherlock’s view. The blue light cast shadows across the right side of John’s face and made him look like a dream Sherlock’s mind had concocted to taunt him.

The look of pure want on John’s face had Sherlock drawing shallow breaths. He wasn’t sure what it was that John wanted or how much but he was ready to give it to him at all costs.

John took that final step forward and felt his body relax into the thin detective’s body. He never once broke eye contact so he was able to see the look of pure hesitancy on Sherlock’s face. The detective was just a few inches taller than him and he could feel Sherlock’s expanding rib cage on his chest. It was clear that Sherlock was tense and John offered the comfort he thought he needed. John caressed Sherlock’s cheekbone with his hand and the detective melted into the touch.

At the touch of John’s skin upon his cheek, Sherlock closed his eyes and felt his body release all the tension he had felt moments earlier. He could not understand how the rough hands of an invalided army doctor could feel so wonderful; the science just was not sound.

Just like their walk earlier, neither of them initiated and neither of them decided; it just happened. They only moved a couple inches until their lips met each other.

The kiss was slow and hesitant. Sherlock still had his eyes closed and was unsure of what was happening before him. His ears were no longer registering sound. All his senses were tuned to the feel of John’s lips and Sherlock was quickly concluding that there was no part of John that did not feel absolutely amazing.

John was hesitant because Sherlock had yet to say a word or even respond to his lips. The pleasure of Sherlock’s lips was quickly dissolving into dread.

After a moment of absolute stillness from the detective, John began to draw back his lips. Every thought of regret set into his body. Perhaps he had read the signals wrong –

Before he could fully remove himself from the detective’s body, Sherlock’s strong hand grabbed John’s arm and crushed his body to Sherlock. The first thing John felt was the crush of Sherlock’s lips against his own. Unlike the first kiss, this time it was full of hunger. John moaned and opened his mouth in desire. Sherlock did not allow another opportunity to pass him by. He let his tongue in and allowed himself a taste of John.

It was all too much information for both of them. Sherlock’s hands were frantically grasping at every part of John he could touch without distancing himself. John was too hypnotized by the feel of Sherlock’s lips on his to even remember about the rest of his body.

Their lips slid against each other for long moments. The few tourists standing on the Embankment took notice of the two men kissing in the blue light of The Eye. They all quickly looked away to give them privacy and moved on.

John and Sherlock did not even notice their surroundings anymore. They were too captivated in the feel of each other’s bodies. John was the first to draw back his lips and slide them along Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock then buried his face in John’s neck and knew he never wanted to stop feeling this way.

They held each other until John felt the vibration of Sherlock’s phone against his stomach.

“Sherlock,” whispered John into his ear. Sherlock moaned in response, which produced a chuckle from John and only made the detective want to hang onto him more. “Sherlock, your phone.”

Sherlock groaned but eventually pulled away to grab at his phone. One look at the screen had his eyes growing wide and dark with anger.

“What’s the matter?” asked John as the detective began looking at his surroundings.

Without preamble, Sherlock grabbed John’s sleeve and took off running. John was in hot pursuit trying to keep up with the long legs of the detective and not knowing what was happening.

They rounded street corners and alleyways. John was led down back streets he had never even seen on maps. There was still so much to this detective that John had only just scratched the surface.

Sherlock swore the only sounds he could hear were the sounds of his blood pumping and the sounds of cars in pursuit. He wove and wove. He led John into another alleyway and felt his anger reach it’s tipping point as he saw a car blocking the exit.

“Deadend? Sherlock, what’s happening?” It was John’s military voice. Sherlock was not the only one feeling the adrenaline.

The detective tried to quickly turn them back around the way they came but it was too late. A black car, that was only visible when it caught a glimmer of a street lamp, blocked the only opening left.

Sherlock momentarily considered finding a way to climb a brick wall before he heard his brother’s drawl, “Oh Sherlock, must we always play these games?” The detective looked at his brother standing next to his car holding the door open then to John, the soldier, standing next to him trying to understand the situation.

“I’ll come with you,” said Sherlock to his brother.

Sherlock felt John’s body tense next to him but he did not look. He wasn’t sure if John would try to talk him out of going and Sherlock wasn’t entirely convinced he couldn’t be persuaded to do so but he knew Mycroft would try to talk to John too if he didn’t play along.

Sherlock let go of John’s sleeve and began to move towards the car. There was a moment of a role reversal as John reached out to grab Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock only shook his head and didn’t look back.

 

* * *

 

That night, John went back to his flat alone. The night had been so promising and now he did not know if he would ever see Sherlock Holmes again.

Halfway back to his flat, on the train, he remembered that he no longer had his cane and the full force of the psychosomatic pain was back.

The next day, John limped his way back to the train station and back to Northumberland Street. A brief conversation with Angelo yielded very little. It turned out that Sherlock had a habit of using other people’s phones, which meant he could not get a phone number. And Sherlock was in between flats, which meant John couldn’t even get an address or a street name. It was all so discouraging.

 

* * *

 

“And there’s another bedroom upstairs if you need a flat share” said Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock didn’t reply. He continued to look around 221B with all his things finally moved in. There still felt something missing and he didn’t know what.

He had some idea but he had yet to admit it to himself that he wanted it. That night, after Mycroft had put his nose where it didn’t belong, he had promised himself he would not go searching for John Watson, invalided army doctor.

And he certainly wasn’t turning at the sight of every blonde head or looking out for the smile that could make his cheekbones burn or a set of hands that looked rough and worn but were actually the most pleasant feeling hands a person could ever have holding them.

 

* * *

 

It was two weeks before Valentine’s Day and already the shops were decorated in red and pink. To be fair, the shops had been decorated weeks in advance but the encounter with the consulting detective had made John notice a lot more. For one, John was now a lot more aware that many men in London wore long dark coats. Also, there was quite a large proportion of the London population that had dark brown hair. Not all of them curls but dark brown, which made it extremely difficult to walk through London or just a café the way he was now.

The café was very small and intimate but it seemed to get more of a clientele from the local Uni. John tried to get a look at the book bags and see what they were all studying. It was much more difficult if you weren’t a consulting detective.

John sat in at a small table by himself for a couple hours until he decided he was finished looking so lonely. He gathered himself and his cane then headed out the exit door, making the bell ring above the door.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock dramatically swept into the café making the bell ring above the entrance door. Something was off about the bell. It sounded like it had an echo. He looked at the exit door across the room and saw the bell had just finished ringing.

He quickly ordered a cup of coffee (“black two sugars”) and found a small recently occupied table.

Sherlock looked around the room trying to see if he could spot the victim’s friend – small café with a Uni crowd. It fit. – and felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of a blond head across the room. At a second glance he realized this blond was decades younger and did not have the right amount of grey.

Upon further scrutiny he saw that the owner of the blonde was a student at Bart’s. For some reason, he found that amusing.

 

* * *

 

Valentine’s day. John tried to remind himself that it didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t an actual holiday. Really just a chance for flower shops to make money. Not having a date (or a certain consulting detective) on Valentine’s Day didn’t mean anything.

Still he found himself walking around Regent’s park remembering all the places he had walked with Sherlock.

“John. John Watson,” called a voice behind him. It was the wrong voice but a voice nonetheless.

John turned and found himself looking into the face of Mike Stamford, his friend that had tried to chat up Mrs Abbott. They got a cup of coffee and sat on a bench catching up and Mike explaining his Valentine’s Day plans.

“And what about you,” asked Mike. “Living with anyone? Seeing someone?”

John shook his head. “Nope. Living on an army pension doesn’t really buy me dates.”

“So you’re living alone?”

“Can’t afford London either.”

“You could always get a flat share or something,” smiled Mike.

“Come on. Who would want me as a flat mate?”

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock?”

“I need to see what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man’s alibi depends on it. Text me.”

“Listen, I was wondering: maybe later...”

Sherlock looked up and saw the lipstick on Molly’s lips. Not red. Red would mean in love. Pink. Definitely in lust. “Are you wearing lipstick? You weren’t wearing lipstick before.”

“I, er, I refreshed it a bit.”

Oh god, thought Sherlock. “Sorry, you were saying?”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock managed to shake Molly off and retreat into the Bart’s lab. He blamed Valentine’s Day, made up holiday. It made everyone think they needed to find someone. Well sometimes you didn’t need anyone, thought Sherlock. If the body in the morgue had proved anything in the last ten minutes was that all lives end and all hearts are broken.

In the midst of those thoughts, Sherlock vaguely registered the sound of the door opening. It wasn’t until he heard that voice say, “bit different from my day.”

Sherlock barely managed to keep a handle on the pipette as his mind screamed at him that it was The Voice. The voice that had said “amazing” and had whispered his name into his ear.

He looked up and was met with the wide blue eyes of John Watson. Sherlock could only imagine that he equally looked like a deer caught in the headlights since it was putting That Smile on John’s face.

Sherlock quickly tried to gather himself and was grateful he managed to even speak. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John’s smile grew ten fold and Sherlock thought that maybe alone really isn’t all he had.


End file.
